The Heart Never Doubts
by Esther Kirkland
Summary: Series of 221b oneshots in a sort-of, not-really AU exploring the idea that John isn't completely convinced that Sherlock REALLY died. Based on the line "Please don't be dead"...what if he really wasn't sure?
1. Chapter 1

**What is Left Behind**

* * *

He's not really sure how he ended up back at the flat. He doesn't remember getting a cab, or walking back, or anyone giving him a ride. Doesn't really matter, anyway. He's back, he's safe, there's a mug of tea on the table before him, and that's all that matters.

Though he doesn't remember where the tea came from either.

He sits there, and thinks. It's different now, looking at the things around him. Just things; just lifeless, unfeeling things. Objects. But they're different now, because _he_ won't ever claim them again. They were _his_, and now he's gone.

There are, of course, the iconic things, the ones everyone notices because they're so _him. _The skull, grinning blankly with an "I-told-you-so" expression on the mantle. The violin, propped against the fireplace with a sheaf of music in a haphazard pile. The beakers and bottles and Bunsen burners cluttering the kitchen. He notices all of those, of course. But it's more the small things that strike him the hardest. A pile of wadded scraps of paper—_he_ had been working out a cipher. A half-full coffee cup on the table that would need washing soon. A list of library books pinned to the refrigerator. Those needed to be returned.

He understood those things. He was just like them.

The things left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wondering**

* * *

He had to do something with himself. Sitting around in parks, moping along the sidewalk and starting every time a tall man in a dark coat walked around the corner…he was going to go mad, and he wouldn't be any help to anyone if he did that.

So he went back to work.

It was hard, sure. But what else could he do? And honestly, people needed him as much as he needed to be there. The office was short staffed as it was, and there had been a nasty flu-bug going around…It didn't hurt things either that he seemed to be something of a favorite with some of the more difficult patients.

Still, there were nights, when he returned to his little temporary flat—he'd go back to Baker Street eventually, he'd promised Mrs. Hudson. Just not yet—and stared at the ceiling and wondered. He honestly _wondered_ about Sherlock's death. He couldn't convince himself that there was nothing more to the story—that all Sherlock had left behind was a broken body on the pavement. It didn't add up.

He realized, of course, that it was probably the grief talking. Denial stage and all that. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks to months and the denial didn't fade, he wondered more.

Did he still believe?


	3. Chapter 3

Just _once_, John would love to be anonymous again. 'John Watson' wasn't an uncommon name—so how did _everyone_ know who he was? Even in the aftermath of the jump, it was always _Sherlock's_ face in the papers—pale, intense, annoyed at being photographed—and John a blurry, ever-present shadow in the background.

Over and over again, John replayed Sherlock's actions. And every time he came up with the same deduction: Sherlock _couldn't_ be dead. It was an impossibility. And John had learned: eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains is true. Since it was impossible for Sherlock Holmes, of all people, to kill himself, then he must be alive. If the lanky detective had taught John anything, it was that he couldn't always trust his own eyes. Sometimes, one had to trust the instincts of one's gut—or one's heart, whichever was stronger. And his heart said that Sherlock was alive.

How, John wasn't sure. Why Sherlock had inflicted this on him, he didn't know. But he had to believe that Sherlock was _alive_. In hiding, maybe, unable to return. John wondered and wished for something to tell him that he wasn't crazy or a victim of his own delusions, so he could forgive Sherlock the silence.

Not that forgiveness would stop John socking the idiot if he ever came back.


	4. Chapter 4

John sat in his office with a pencil and a piece of paper he nicked from the printer. **_Facts_**, he'd written in strong, steady strokes at the top. He felt slightly… nervous. Not quite guilty, but as if this was something he shouldn't do. Like he might be hexing himself by actually writing it out.

Taking a breath, he scratched: _Sherlock = not kill himself._ If nothing else, Sherlock wouldn't be able to consider that the world might be able to get on without him.

_Moriarty = wanted S. dead_. That one was obvious. Moriarty said it himself, that first meeting.

_I saw body._ That was true, never mind how much it plagued his nightmares.

_Not dead = body fake._ It was a logical conclusion. It had been Sherlock—there was no faking that. John knew his flatmate too well—knew the high cheekbones, the icy eyes, the curling hair. It made him burn with fury to realize that Sherlock had fooled him—not so much that he had managed it, but that he had dared. What sort of friend does that? Sherlock was… well, Sherlock, but still.

Growling in frustration, John ripped the page from its pad and crumpled the sheet of paper, throwing it across the room and into the wastebasket by the door.

Logic didn't solve all problems.


	5. Chapter 5

John stopped by Mrs. Hudson's after work, sitting in her kitchen and let her fuss, pushing tea and sweets at him until he couldn't eat another bite.

"Mrs. Hudson, you're a saint," he said around a mouthful of chocolate-chip-something.

"Oh, posh," she protested, flapping her hand at him with a bit of a blush.

"No, really." He thought of holes in walls, unearthly noises late at night, messes of all sorts… "I mean it."

She sat down across from him and tilted her head, birdlike. "How are you doing then, luv?"

He swallowed, and looked down at the plate.

"Better than might be expected," he admitted. "I, ah…It hasn't seemed to hit me yet."

She nodded, as if she agreed completely. "I was that way after my husband died," she said, patting his hand. "It'll pass."

"I'm not sure I want it to," John said. He didn't mention his suspicions about Sherlock's death being a fraud. Somehow, in the warm glow of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, that seemed like the daydream of a child. But even if it wasn't, even if he was only fooling himself—was hopeless grief any better?

She gave him a sad little smile, patted his hand one more time, and stood, busying herself at the sink.

"Don't fret, luv," she said, clinking the dishes. "It gets better."


	6. Chapter 6

**The Graveyard**

He hadn't visited Sherlock's grave since the day Mrs. Hudson made him come with her to bring flowers. But today, the sun shining down and the sky devoid of clouds, he thought he could face it. Maybe sitting in a graveyard for a while would help him figure out his thoughts. He walked across the uneven ground, and sat down in the grass under the tree.

"I'm not convinced, you know," he said conversationally to the silent black headstone that adorned the grave of Sherlock Holmes. The supposed grave, that is. "I know you, and I know you're an idiotic prat that wouldn't give a second thought to faking your own death."

The headstone—predictably—said nothing.

John sighed, and leaned back on his hands, staring up through the leaves of the tree that hung over the grave. "I'd just… I'd just like to know for sure, you know?" A sparrow leaped from branch to branch above him, and he watched it flit about. It reminded him of Molly, and her fluttery, shy sweetness.

Molly.

John sat bolt upright, startling the bird into sudden flight. Of all people, Molly might be the only one who could tell him what he wanted to know. She worked in the hospital, she knew Sherlock and—more importantly—Sherlock trusted her.

Next stop: St. Barts.


End file.
